I am mad with love
And no one understands my plight.
Only the wounded
Understand the agonies of the wounded,
Do not leave me alone, a helpless woman.
My strength, my crown,
I am empty of virtues,
You, the ocean of them.
The plums tasted
sweet to the unlettered desert-tribe girl-
but what manners! To chew into each! She was ungainly,
low-caste, ill mannered and dirty,
Nothing is really mine except Krishna.
O my parents, I have searched the world
And found nothing worthy of love.
Hence I am a stranger amidst my kinfolk
I have found a guru in Raidas, he has
given me the pill of knowledge.
Dark Friend, what can I say?
This love I bring
from distant lifetimes is ancient,
do not revile it.
Sleep has not visited me the whole night,
Will the dawn ever come?
O my companion,
Once I awoke with a start from a dream.
I send letters to my Beloved,
The dear Krishna.
But He sends no message of reply,
Purposely preserving silence.
Mira danced with ankle-bells on her feet.
People said Mira was mad; my mother-in-law